


The world at your feet

by morred



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morred/pseuds/morred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Mycroft had someone on their knees</p>
            </blockquote>





	The world at your feet

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: graphic sex and depictions of violence

**i**  
The boy’s not much younger than you, though you’ve always looked older than your years. An old soul, as Mummy used to say, growing into your face. Half a minute’s scrutiny tells you he’s a student, home for Christmas and enacting a petty rebellion against the stultifying atmosphere of a family Christmas by picking up men in a hotel bar. You’re sympathetic, though contemptuous of his bravado in being  here , where there’s a good chance of meeting his father’s colleagues or his school-friends’ fathers. But perhaps that’s part of the thrill. You wouldn’t be his first this evening (striking looks, dark ginger hair and pale freckled skin, sulky pout and a hint that he’s choosy about his partners: bored but hardly  desperate ).   
  
You don’t do this often, but he’s beautiful and you’re bored. You’d be kinder to him than the jowly businessman who’s eyeing him from the other end of the bar, and it’s good practice for you to keep up these skills. It is (you’d deny it, but you’ve never seen the point of lying to yourself) a quick rush of satisfaction every time you prove you  can . It’s not about power; it’s about ability. Perhaps not  much  ability is required in this case, but then you’ve little heart for a challenge this evening.   
  
You buy him a drink, claiming old acquaintance under false names and a hand warm against the small of his back. ( James, it’s Stephen, remember? Long time no see...) He smiles (teeth slightly crooked, despite orthodontic work, grinds his teeth in his sleep, uses lip balm but licks it off before it can do any good), drains the scotch and follows you up to a room (not yours, but you’ve long had a skeleton keycard for the major London hotels).   
  
You’re not in the mood for conversation, so you gag him, first with your tie, then with your cock. He kneels beautifully (you knew he would) and whimpers when you stroke his hair and cradle the base of his skull (ditto). You are perhaps  too vain about your hands; it would do well to curb this, you think (a resolution for the new year), watching your fingers twine in the ginger curls. Then, for a few blissful seconds, you don’t think at all.

  


  **ii**  
He is your only brother, and this is for his own good. Mere seconds ago he was pacing the locked room, screaming weeping defiance, threatening you with the law, with violence, with the shades of your dead parents and the worst insults his mind can produce. Now he’s on his knees, long arms wrapped round your legs, tugging at the fraying edge of your pullover (you must get that fixed).  Please, he whimpers, please. His face is pressed into your thigh. I need, he says. Sherlock has always needed. So many things Sherlock needs. Some you’ve always tried to provide (distraction, attention, stimulation, money, silence, an antagonist, constancy), some you will not (drugs, needles), and others that you fear you do not know how to give, nor he to receive.

Mycroft , he says again, face pressed against your thigh.  Mycroft, please. I need. They’re mine, I need them. You never... I need. You don't understand. Please. He quietens when you put a hand in his hair.

 

**iii**

You wonder if the man on his knees before you can picture the trajectory as well as you can. Unlikely - he has probably never observed a bullet enter a man’s skull from point-blank range, and he’s distracted because his is the particular skull in question. In your experience, brushes with death make most people lose focus.

You can picture it quite easily: death will be almost instantaneous; the sound will ricochet off the concrete walls; and Anthea will step to her right at the last second to avoid ruining her suit. She’ll have her mobile out before his body slumps to the ground.

You blink, and the image disappears. ‘Anthea, call Lestrade, and the Home Secretary. You will be tried by a court of your peers,’ you tell the man kneeling in front of you. ‘By which I mean British citizens, rather than your more  specific peers, who would be far less gentle with you. There’s no honour among thieves, or murderers. You will be found guilty, due to the amount of evidence we have amassed against you, and the security aspects of the case will ensure you will never live freely again. You have lost. My staff are rounding up your network as we speak. Do you understand?’ He nods.

Such a  waste of a human being. He wouldn’t be missed, you think. Not even a very  competent master-criminal. Not even inventive enough to merit involving your brother, though the nature of his crimes, and some of his  backers , required your personal involvement. A thoroughly tiresome affair all round. And he has killed; slit their throats needlessly and without remorse. But you made yourself a promise when you started on this path: no public acknowledgements; no private executions. (You do find it helpful to maintain a distinction between  execution and  assassination .) In both cases, your own judgement should be sufficient. You know your own worth and you know when you’ve won. Let that be enough. You are neither a dictator nor a god. You are a civil servant.

But you are suddenly so very tired. The gallant boys in blue are minutes away. Anthea is here and your staff are outside. You lower your gun and turn to go home.

It’s the barest movement of damp fabric against concrete, a rubber-soled shoe moving, but you sidestep on instinct, turning and dropping into a crouch, gun coming back up to bear and a knife appearing in your left hand. The man doesn’t even get to begin the spring that was meant to tackle you to the ground (laughable, that he thought to throttle you with his bare hands). Your shot only found his collarbone (you make a note to do some practice) but Anthea had a clear shot at his head. Her gun’s already disappeared; she’s saying shot resisting arrest  and  attempted murder into her Blackberry. 

You realise you’re staring at the body and force yourself to turn away, slip the knife back against your forearm under your shirt. There is blood on your suit, and (you twitch a handkerchief from your pocket) across your face. 


End file.
